Ancient You
There’s nothing sacred in ancient texts
No revelations dawn in east—or west
No heaven-sent virtue in any One
Even the Guide Star appears to run
We worship age; we worship reason
We worship ages that had their season
We follow (wo)men—and convinced we see
We’ve cornered “truth” conveniently
Intuition overridden, mind set to rest
Our life—a slumber—not what we suggest
As I stand for another—or another’s perfect tome
Righteously I pose—I grope as I build my master’s throne
A throne…
A throne to sancti-justify
A throne to stand behind
That throne a proxy for my life
My master not my mind.
Faithful and enduring whisper
As always it has been
Appeals yet in darkest hours
When I listen past the din
Never will it deign to beg or raise its sovereign voice
Its native way and infinite means my ready natural source
And should I choose to see, today, my origin —past the flesh
I’d take possession of my life and live as I was meant.
—Ron Renaud
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